A Commercial Life: In Service of the Viewer
by Someonehadtodoit
Summary: The Geico Gecko has always been a company man. Driven to the edge by years of service, the Gecko has had enough. In a passionate explosion of corruption, Geico Gecko hides himself in a self-created purgatory. Follow Geico Gecko as he struggles with his past and future sins in this psychological thriller.


He cracked open a can of beer and stumbled into the living room. With his last burst of energy, he crumpled onto the couch. He had taken his job back in '99, and after 14 years, it felt like he hadn't got a single day of rest. The motherly leather couch that sat in the centerpiece of his den was his only solace throughout the year. In a trance, he fondled the cushions until the remote slipped out onto the floor. Without even thinking he flicked the television on. Normally, the only safe channels were QVC and HBO: the kind of channels without commercials. But today had been an especially bad day, and his mind needed some sort of anodyne. He let himself tumble into the haze of crappy sitcoms - that mess of pretty people in busy places with mundane problems struggling to be funny.

The cans stacked up, forming a teetering tower, or when that fell down, a nice set of bowling pins. He found the foolish actors troubles funnier than the jokes, the feeble attempts at relating with a vain public. Any resemblance of control had disappeared faster than his career, and that was saying something. He knew the entire time he was on that couch that he was making a mistake. Drunkenness made him depressed, not angry or flirty, and he saw all his mistakes coming straight at him in a blur of beer. He just had no motivation to stop, no desire. At least his mistakes gave him meaning, made it all a tiny bit interesting. He had made his first mistake with that woman while really drunk, so he guessed that was something.

It was the end segment of that sitcom about nerds and banging. That was when he realized that he had pushed his luck too far. The faux laughter was fading out when he found himself staring at himself on the screen. He was smiling, pacing back and forth, lecturing at the camera. He had a cup of coffee and was making some sad joke about the coffee tasting bad. He watched himself in horror as he sputtered out in some stupid accent:

"GEICO. 15 minutes could save you 15 % or more on car insurance."

Geico Gecko slumped to the floor, witness to his own shame. It was too much for him to handle. Letting the wool fibers brush against his naked body, he curled up on the shag carpet, breathing in jagged spikes. The tv kept on spewing ads at him, telling him about the newest innovations in car butt-warming technology and the greatest summer block buster to date. The shimmering light and crackling noise enveloped his lean green body. There was no escape, no vindication, no retribution. He had spent so long prostituting his very soul to some mindless company. The only solution was avoidance, but that was impossible. He would only fall right back into the trap. He began to writhe on the floor, rubbing his extra-sensitive feet every where he could. The dance consumed him, the energy and anger pouring into his movement. From an outside observer it would have looked like a seizure. To Geico Gecko, it was a cleansing ritual. He moved this way and that, reaching out at apparitions from the past, clawing at ephemeral beings that plagued him. His chest beat against the floor, his mind was filled with static, he was running, but there was a floor in his way, it was too much, it had to escape, the primal had to live, he need to leave, to get out, his blood rushed to his face, his eyes were clouded with mist, his ears were pounding, his arms were tingling, his whole body was exploding in energy...

Then the door bell rang. Then he was on his feet. Then the tv was off. Then he was at the door. Then she was in his doorway.

She had taken off her blue hair band, and her brunette mop lay on her shoulder in luscious curls. She wasn't wearing that fuckin white shirt and apron that she always wore at work, and was instead in a simple blue t-shirt. There was no bling, no name tag, free from corporate bullshit. Her red lipstick was a bit smeared, but she looked cute as hell. In that moment, as she stood framed in the doorway, the cheap deck lights illuminating her figure, he felt an attraction that took him back to a different time. But as she stepped past him into the house, a drag jammed between her fingers and breath smelling like bathtub-gin and raspberry juice, he remembered what was behind those huge blue eyes. But, like all of his other mistakes, he had no reason to stop her. Only in the morning would he question his sanity - now, she was escape.

She was already sprawled on the couch when he sauntered into the room. Looking up at him with her sapphire eyes, she beckoned him over.  
"Baby, I got you a special gift," she whispered.  
"Yah, what is it Flo?"  
Reaching to her purse, she pulled out a small bag of coke.

"Progressive must pay pretty well, huh."

"It pays well when you know the right dicks to suck."  
Cackling, her laugh like a engine trying to turn over, she began to make a line on his coffee table. She was looking prettier by the minute.


End file.
